


Nobody Said It Was Easy

by whisperingwind



Series: epilepsy 'verse [17]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Canon Compliant, Circa 2017, Epilepsy, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neurological Disorders, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 16:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12511760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperingwind/pseuds/whisperingwind
Summary: “I hate it,” Those three words leave Harry’s mouth without issue. “I fucking- I hate it,” he whispers, shutting his eyes as more tears surface. “I hate it.”“I know you do,” Louis hushes, kissing Harry’s jaw, “but it wasn’t even bad, Harry. Honestly, hardly anyone even saw. I was coming to congratulate you on the show and you happened to be having the seizure when I got there.” He’s lying, but Harry doesn’t have to know. He’s only trying to put his mind at ease.Or, It's 2017. Harry is on his first solo tour, finally portraying the entertainer he has always dreamed of being, but unfortunately, the seizures don't stop.Title from "The Scientist" by Coldplay





	Nobody Said It Was Easy

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! it's been a little while since i've updated, but i've just been busy with college. here's another epilepsy verse piece and i'm currently in the works of chapter 4 of swallow nostalgia. hopefully y'all enjoy it. as always, feel free to leave me story suggestions below - even if they don't pertain to epilepsy verse - or on my tumblr (troubleistheonlywaydown.tumblr.com). also, feel free to give me a follow on twitter @terrestrialhaz (we can be super cool mutuals!). thank you for kudos, hits, bookmarks, recs, comments, all that jazz. have a great day/night! huge love and cheers. emily. x

“So,” Mitch stops, attempting to process what Louis has told him, “If he has a seizure, I’m supposed to move him on his side?” 

Louis nods, hands clasped around his cup of coffee, “Yeah, but if he’s already seizing by the time you get to him, you shouldn’t touch him,” he meets Mitch’s eyes, explaining his reasoning before the younger man has the opportunity, “It can cause him to hurt himself.” 

Mitch swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stares at Louis, “Does he-” he hesitates- “What if he does get hurt? Am I supposed to call for a medic?” 

This entire conversation feels strange to Louis. He’s never had to sit down with someone and explain the precautions and procedure to take in case Harry were to have a grand-mal. He never expected anyone aside from himself to primarily handle Harry’s seizures, but with his younger husband beginning a world tour, he doesn’t have a choice. He has his own obligations and can’t afford to spend every waking moment with Harry, although he’d like to. 

Louis trusts Mitch. When he and Harry disappeared for a few months to work on Harry’s album, they also worked towards establishing a band for Harry. Mitch was the first one inducted in the band. While Harry seemed to grow attached to him, Louis was also relishing in the humble and collected behaviorisms he displayed. 

“It depends,” Louis says, “Really, it just depends on how serious the injury is. Like, I always call if it’s a head injury or if I think he has a concussion. Most of the time, if he needs to be looked at by a physician, you can take him after the seizure stops,” Louis explains, then continues, “You should always call for emergency services if he goes over five minutes or if he doesn’t regain consciousness between seizures.”

Mitch takes a drink of his coffee, “And what about...how is he when he comes out of it?” 

“He’ll be confused,” Louis replies, “He might cry. He might not know who you are. He’ll struggle with speaking and sitting up. You’ve just gotta take your time with him.” 

Mitch presents a certain level of patience in the way he speaks, the way he handles tough situations, and the way he behaves. Louis finds it to be reassuring and charming. While Louis likes all the members of Harry’s band - Adam, Clare, Sarah and, of course, Mitch - Mitch stands out as being close and understanding of Harry and his disorder. 

“You’ve seen how he is with the smaller fits,” Louis says, reminding the younger man of the few complex partials Harry had in Jamaica, “A little emotional and confused when they stop, so it’s a bit like that, just on a bigger scale. You’ll be fine though, Mitch, his seizures are apart of who he is.”

“And he-“ Mitch hesitates, waving his hand in the air, searching for the right words, “You said he wets himself?” 

Louis nods, “Sometimes. The seizures cause a lot of pressure on his body, especially his bladder. The stress on his body causes him to wet himself,” he adds, “It’s really not a big deal. Usually, if you give him some time, he’ll be able to change his pants and trousers by himself.” 

Mitch sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “How long does it take for him to feel better?”

“Depends on the severity of the seizure,” Louis says, shaking his cup to stir the hot liquid, “I’ve seen him bounce back within a few minutes, but I’ve also seen it take days for him to start acting like himself again. You can usually tell if it’s a more severe seizure by the noises he makes.” 

“Which are?”

Louis jostles his head side to side. “If it isn’t so bad, he might just whimper, but the more serious they are, the louder he gets, he’ll start groaning and yelping-“

“Like, the sound a dog makes?” Mitch asks, cluelessly.

“Very similar, yeah,” Louis meets his eyes, “It’s not a very pleasant noise, but it doesn’t last for very long.” 

Mitch asks, “You’re sure you can’t come on tour with us?” 

“I wanted to,” Louis says, “but when I talked to Harry about it, he encouraged that I work on my own career. The thing about Harry, which I’m sure you know to be true, is he doesn’t want people to know if he’s struggling. He’s quite stubborn.”

“Yeah,” Mitch nods in agreement, hands clenching about his coffee cup, “I just don’t want to be the reason he gets hurt or something.” 

“You won’t,” Louis says without hesitation, “Honestly, his fits sound a lot worse than they are. For me, it became routine, although I’ve never been able to shake the distress they cause me. Because- I mean that’s my husband, you know? I love him more than anyone else. I don’t want to see him suffer.” 

“Am I late?” A third familiar voice asks. Louis turns his head to find Harry with a black iced coffee in hand. “You’re having a date without me?” Although there’s humor in his voice, there’s also a hint of jealousy, but he would never actually say he was. 

Louis moves over, allowing Harry room. “We were just talking about tour, love, no worries,” he offers, careful to not upset Harry. He would be very perturbed if he knew Louis brought Mitch to a coffee shop to discuss his disorder without his knowledge. “Here, have a seat.” 

Harry sits down beside Louis and the older boy slings his arm around Harry’s shoulders, tugging his broad frame closer. “Thought you had vocal rehearsals this morning,” Louis says, “Wasn't expecting you.”

Harry drinks his coffee. “They finished early,” he glances at Mitch, “What were you two talking about?”

“Oh um-“ Mitch rubs the back of his neck, searching for an answer that isn’t there- “Just tour and stuff, man.”

“I figured. That’s a bit vague,” Harry answers, but doesn’t push his guitarist any further, “What did Louis tell you about my seizures?” 

Louis groans, burying his face into the palm of his hand.

“We weren’t-“ Mitch begins to say-

Louis interrupts, “Don't bother.” 

“Really, Lou?” Harry sighs, shaking his husband’s arm off his shoulders, “I had it under control. I was going to speak with security. You didn’t need to go behind my back and speak to my mate about my issues.” 

“Harry,” Louis touches his shoulder, “I think it’s best that someone close to you knows the proper aid. Mitch is very-“

“I don’t care,” Harry snaps, meeting his eyes, “This tour is an opportunity for me to be the person I was never able to be in One Direction. I don’t need accommodations or- or this stupid disorder following me around.”

Louis sighs, moving his hand from Harry’s shoulder to his face, cradling his jaw, “You still have epilepsy,” he reminds, “It doesn’t just go away and I won’t be there to help you. I need you to understand my apprehension towards this entire thing. If something were to happen to you I-“

“Nothing will happen,” Harry replies, “I’m- the medication is really working this time and I’m used to the side effects. I’ve never felt better.” 

Louis and Mitch exchange a look. “Okay,” the older man says, “I’m glad you’re feeling better then.”

Harry leaves for tour the following week and Louis feels absolutely lost without him. There’s a few hiccups during the first few shows in America, but it’s not anything they can’t work past. One particularly hard situation occurs halfway through the first North American Leg. He has a seizure in the middle of the night, alone in a hotel room, and calls Louis, absolutely belligerent. 

The time difference made it so it was eight a.m. in London when Harry called. Louis had been awake, preparing himself a simple breakfast, when his phone started buzzing. “What are you doing calling me at this hour? Isn’t it like three in the morning?” he asks, holding his cell phone between his shoulder and ear, “Rockstars need sleep too.” 

Then the sobbing had started. Louis couldn’t even make out the words Harry was struggling to expel, rather his sniffles and heaving breaths were the only things he could comprehend. “Harry, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” he asked, concerned, halting his food preparation, “Baby, you’ve gotta talk to me. Please, tell me what’s going on,” he begged, desperate.

“I-” Harry cried, “S-” 

“Shit, did you have a seizure?” Louis asked, stepping away from the counter. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t transport to Harry. “Are you okay? Where are you? Harry, you’ve got to calm down for me, love. I can’t hear you.” 

Harry didn’t answer him, utterly distraught, as he continued to sob into the phone. 

“Harry,” Louis whispered. His heart was thumping expeditiously against his chest. “Where are you, love? Is there someone there with you? Is Mitch there?” 

“H- ho-“ he stopped speaking. 

“Hotel? You’re at your hotel?” Louis asked, “Okay, that’s good, but where are you? In bed? You know- can you facetime me?” he asked, rubbing his hand over his face, “I wanna see you, love.”

Harry disconnected the call. As soon as Louis attempted to call back, his phone was ringing with a Facetime alert.

“Oh, love,” Louis cooed, staring at Harry through the small phone screen. Even despite the darkness of the room, Louis could see how flushed his cheeks and unruly his hair was. “It looks like you’re in bed, yeah?” 

Harry slowly nodded

“Okay,” Louis breathed out, “Did you hurt yourself? Does anything hurt?”

Harry shook his head. “M- might be-” he stopped, “Might be- be sick.” 

“There you go. You’re coming out of it, babe. You’re doing great,” Louis encouraged, “and it’s okay if you get sick. Is there a rubbish bin by the bed?” 

“Yeah, um-” Harry moved his head away from the camera, but Louis could still detect the sound of intense retching. He bowed his head slightly, waiting for the round of stress induced vomiting to cease. 

He hesitated after the noises halted, “Are you okay?”

“Don’t feel good,” Harry muttered. His face appeared back in the shot. He rested his head back against the pillow, shutting his eyes. 

Louis felt terrible. There was nothing practical he could do from the other side of the world. “Do you want me to call someone to come sit with you? I don’t want you to be all by yourself if you don’t feel well.” 

Harry blinked. “Everyone’s asleep,” he argued, “Can’t bother ‘em.”

“It’s not bothering them if you don’t feel well,” Louis replied, “Do you have some water?” 

Harry shook his head, “Don’t- don’t think I can get up,” he said, honestly. 

“I’m gonna call Mitch to come sit with you, okay?” he asked, though rhetorically. It didn’t matter if Harry told him yes or no, he was going to call Mitch to come sit with him. “You’re too weak to stand. I don’t want you alone.” 

“O- okay,” Harry whimpered, then Louis watched as his expression widened. Before he could question him, the phone was sent out of focus. He sighed when he heard Harry being sick, again. 

Louis waited until he came back into frame. “Are you sure you’re okay? Nothing hurts?” 

“My head,” Harry mumbled. 

“Yeah,” Louis whispered, “I’m going to call Mitch, then I’ll call you right back, sweetheart. Just take it easy for me.” 

Louis spent the rest of the morning terrified. He hated the thought of Harry experiencing such serious seizures without his presence. Even talking to Harry over video chat wasn’t enough to ease his nerves because Harry looked so unwell, almost too unwell, and when Mitch came around, his chest might have stopped contracting, but he was still scared. 

He should’ve fought Harry about joining him on tour because from that day on he lives in constant fear of the inevitable.

By the time he attends one of Harry’s shows, it’s November. He’s in Glasgow, sitting in the balcony area, surrounded by several guards. His attempt of blending in, appearing inconspicuous, doesn’t really work in his favor. 

He watches Harry’s entire show, never taking his eyes on the younger lad, and his body flourishes with excitement and content. Harry was, is, and will always be a great entertainer. 

After the show, Louis is escorted through the crowd to the back corridors of the theater. He carries a bouquet of roses in his hand and the security guard walking beside him does his best to make small talk. 

“His dressing room is right around this corner,” the guard says, turning the corner. Though, once they’ve both turned the corner, Louis’ face falls flat. “Why are there so many people by his room?”  


“I haven’t the slightest clue,” the guard answers, rubbing the back of his neck. 

There are at least a dozen people standing outside Harry’s room. Louis recognizes a few of them as security personnel and PR representatives, but he swears he hasn’t seen most of them before. “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Louis asks. Everyone ignores him. “Excuse me, will someone tell me what the fuck is happening?” 

As he approaches the room, Harry’s pianist, Clare, steps between two guards, “Louis,” she breathes, “He’s having a really massive seizure. The guards wouldn’t let any of us stay in the room.”    


Louis’ eyes widen, “Fuck,” he shoves the flowers into her grasp and turns, attempting to push past several bodies, “Get out of my way. You need to fucking move. Move, move, move,” Louis snaps as he slides his slim figure between the throng of spectators. As he forces his way to the front of the crowd, he can make out a group of about three sentinels crowding around Harry as he withers on the floor. 

“Hey!” Louis shouts upon noticing Harry’s being forced still as his body fights the hold, bucking off the floor, “What the hell are you doing? Easy, you’ve gotta take it easy with him. You can’t hold him down like that!”

Harry is uncontrollably spasming under the one guard holding him down. His neck cranes to the left, strained, veins protruding.

“No, you’re fucking hurting him. Stop,” Louis snaps, dropping to his knees, “You’ll cause him to break his neck, fucking stop.” 

The guard looks bewildered, removing his hands, and holds them up in mock surrender as he backs away.

“You’re alright, shh,” Louis whispers, hand hesitating above Harry. The younger boy looks pained, eyes screwed shut, as the vicious spasms pass through his broad frame, “It’s alright. I’m here, shh, I’m here. You’ve gotta stop seizing for me, sweetheart.” The color is drained from his face, aside from the pink twinge gathered in the apples of his cheeks, and the blue streaking his bloodied lips. 

Harry whines, throwing his head back against the wooden floor, and Louis quickly moves his hand, sliding it underneath, creating a barrier between Harry’s scalp and the floor. “Shh, shh, relax, it’s okay. I watched your show and it was so good, Harry, so good. You had me laughing and crying. The whole bit. I’m so proud.” 

He uses his free hand - and the loose sleeve around his wrist - to wipe Harry’s mouth as spit expels past his lips and drips down his chiseled face. “It’s alright, shh, you’re alright,” People are staring. Harry’s entire band and team are staring at this travesty before them, but Louis doesn’t care, his sole focus is keeping Harry steady and encouraging him to come out of this seizure. “I know,” Louis whispers, “I know, love, oh I know. You’ve gotta come out of it for me.” 

Harry’s head jerks against Louis’ hand as louder sounds leave him. Louis knows it’s a rather intense seizure due to the intensity of the noises he’s making. “You’re alright, hush, you’ve gotta stop seizing for me, baby. You’ve gotta stop. You’re doing so good.” 

“I-“ Someone starts to say-

Louis doesn’t turn to see who. “Not now,” he replies, guiding his hand to Harry’s cheek, cradling it. His legs kick against the floor - almost like a child throwing a tantrum - while his arms remain stiff as they tremble. “Come on, love, come on. Shh, you’ve gotta do this for me,” He curls his fingers slightly, firmly holding Harry’s head, “I know you can come out of it, baby, come on. You can do it.” 

There’s blood infused saliva everywhere, but Louis hardly pays attention to it, again primarily focused on guiding Harry out of these severe convulsions. “Someone grab me towels,” he calls over his shoulder, then fixates his attention on Harry again. He notices that Harry’s wet himself - the crotch of his expensive suit is darker than the rest - and he angles his body accordingly, hovering over it until he can drape something over his lap. Nobody needs to know that he’s wet himself. “There you go, shh, it’s alright,” Louis whispers as Harry begins to slow and the spasms aren’t nearly as troubling. “Good, love, you’re doing so good. Keep steady for me. I’m gonna clean you up and get you home once you feel better.” 

Clare drops towels beside Louis, then rests her manicured hand on his back. “Is he alright?”

“I think so,” Louis answers, holding Harry’s cheek, “How hard did he fall? Did he hit his head?” 

“No,” Clare shakes her head, “He didn’t look too well. Adam was encouraging him to sit down, but he was having a hard time walking. Mitch managed to help him to the floor, but then security tried to take over, pushed all of us out of the room.” 

“I’ll have to have a chat with them,” Louis says, “Can’t risk him getting hurt because of someone’s lack of understanding.” 

Harry’s eyes flutter open and narrow as he peers around the room. He tries sitting up, but, inevitably falls on his back. “Hey,” Louis whispers, leaning forward, causing Clare’s hand to slide off his back. He touches the center of Harry’s chest, guiding him to lay back, “You had a seizure. Take it easy for me.”

He mutters something unintelligible and Louis nods as though he understands, reaching for a towel, and laying it over his lap to hide the urine. “You’re alright,” Louis whispers, then reaches for another towel to wipe Harry’s face because his nose is running and spit is smeared across his face. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It wasn’t that bad this time.” 

Harry’s eyes aren’t quite focused, pupils and irises wandering as he tries to pinpoint his attention on one particular thing. Louis uses the pad of his thumb to graze over Harry’s cheekbone. “We’ll give it a few minutes, then see if you can sit up,” Louis says, “Do you know where you are?”

“I-“ Harry looks around, cluelessly, then shakes his head. 

“That’s okay, baby,” Louis says, then brushes his hand through Harry’s hair, feeling for lumps or lacerations. “Do you know who I am?”

Harry furrows his eyebrows, raising his chin slightly to observe Louis, though he’s quickly halted by a loud cry. “Shit,” Louis hisses, hands hesitating to touch Harry anymore as the convulsions erupt again.

“Is he having another one?” Sarah asks from across the room.

“Yeah,” Louis sighs, “It’s alright, Harry, shh. You were doing so good, baby, come back out of it for me.” 

“I’m calling 911,” A random tour staff member says, “This is ridiculous.”

Louis glares at her, “You’re not calling anyone,” he snaps, “He’s had cluster seizures before and he doesn’t need more fucking people in this room crowding him.”

“It’s not normal-“

“I don’t need you to tell me what’s normal and abnormal in regard to my husband’s seizures,” Louis snaps, “I’ve been handling them for eight bloody years and he’s fine. Everyone needs to give him some room and take a few steps back.” 

Harry vomits in the midst of this seizure and Louis quickly turns his attention back to him, reaching for another towel while he cautiously tilts Harry’s head, allowing the acidic substance to drain. “Shh, you’re okay, love,” he whispers, “You’ve gotta slow down for me, shh, it’s alright.”

Sarah exchanges a quick, worried look with Mitch. Mitch kneels down across from Louis. “What does he need?”

“I need him to come out of it first,” Louis answers, holding Harry’s cheek, as he begins to salivate more, “Shh, it’s okay, you’re alright, love, shh it’s alright.” 

Harry’s head turns to the side again, neck arching, causing Louis to release his hold in order to prevent injury, and he lets out several wounded noises. Louis winces, shutting his eyes, as his body tingles with empathy. 

When he opens his eyes again, he notices the abnormal curve to Harry’s wrist, possibly a result of the guard holding his arms down during the first round of fits. “You’re coming out of it, Harry,” Louis whispers, “You’re going such a good job. It’s alright, shh hush, it’s okay.”

Harry loudly whines, neck arching back, body fighting against the last burst of intense spasming. 

“Almost over,” Louis encourages, “You’re doing so well, baby, so good. You’re alright.”

Harry gradually begins to slow, until ceasing completely. “It’s alright,” Louis whispers, tucking Harry’s shirt back into his pants. While Harry was at least conscious the first time he came out of it, he isn’t now. Louis won’t push him. He places his hand on Harry’s cheek as he vacantly stares at the ceiling, absolutely oblivious to everything and everyone around him. “Take your time, sweetheart. There’s no rush.”

“We need to be moving on to Nashville,” A representative says, “How long is this going to take?”

Louis peers at him, “Look at him,” he snaps, “Does he look like he’s capable of traveling right now? Let alone sitting up?”

The representative begins to speak, “He-“

“He doesn’t even know I’m talking to him right now,” Louis snaps, “Don’t fucking push him when he can’t be pushed.” 

Mitch watches Louis, “Man, I’m sorry. I froze completely and then-“ 

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis says, keeping his eyes trained on Harry, “You got him on the floor before he started seizing. That’s really important,” He brushes the pad of his thumb over Harry’s defined cheekbone, “You did so well, love. Think we’re gonna have to have your wrist looked at though.” 

Everyone stands in silence, watching, fucking studying the situation before them, as if Harry is some kind of experiment. Louis glances up at the security guards standing by the door. “Can I get everyone out of here? I don’t know how he’s gonna be when he comes to.” 

Security doesn’t hesitate, escorting the representatives and stage hands out of the room. Harry’s bandmates are the last to leave, asking Louis if he needs anything before they go, behaving with extreme understanding. “No, you guys try to enjoy the rest of your night,” he says, “Get some sleep.” 

Soon after Harry’s band leave, Harry begins to come to, shifting under Louis’ gaze. “Hey,” Louis whispers, cradling Harry’s cheek, “Can you look at me, love? Look at me, come on.”

Harry doesn’t, instead groaning as he shifts, and shuts his eyes. 

“You’re alright,” Louis says, moving his hand from Harry’s cheek to the top of his head, brushing loose hair off his face, “Was a big one, but I don’t think you hurt yourself too bad.” 

Harry opens his eyes, but they wander, unable to find focus on Louis’ face. Louis continues to run his fingers through Harry’s hair, studying his expression. “It’s alright,” he whispers, “You’re coming out of it. 

Harry begins to whine, touching his stomach and chest as he attempts to tug his shirt up. 

“Are you hot?” Louis asks, though rhetorically, as he reaches forward and undoes a few buttons of Harry’s blouse, “I’ll try to cool you down as much as I can, baby. Don’t wanna help you change just yet,” he says, “Let’s get your jacket off,” he decides, slipping one hand under Harry’s back and his other peels the patterned suit jacket off Harry’s sweaty skin. 

After he pulls the suit jacket off, he sets it down beside him. Harry’s black blouse is saturated, clad to his body with sweat.

Harry reaches for his crotch next, but Louis holds his hand over the towel, gently ushering Harry’s hand away, shielding him from touching himself. “No, you don’t wanna do that,” Louis reminds, “I know you’re frustrated, but you’ve gotta be patient. I’ll help you change in a few minutes,” he swallows, “How about I move you to the couch? Does that sound alright?”

Harry doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Okay,” Louis whispers, “I’ll lift you onto the couch.” He slides one arm under his upper back and the other behind his knees and slowly lifts him. He stumbles slightly, staggering over to the couch, and lays Harry down on it. 

He sits down on the edge of the couch, placing his hand on Harry’s thigh, “Your show was so great, love,” he whispers, rubbing his thigh, “You looked so beautiful up there.” 

Harry furrows his eyebrows, shifting his head against the couch, and expels a groan. 

“Thought your voice sounded so great,” Louis adds, staring at Harry’s pale complexion, “It always does.” He presses the back of his hand to Harry’s cheek, sighing at the feverish sensation. He isn’t running a fever, but his body was overworked during the seizure, inflicting havoc on his physical being. 

Harry sighs, eyes narrowed in confusion, as he glances around the room. “I-“ his voice gives out- “Wh-“ he can hardly speak-

“Shh,” Louis grabs his shoulder, holding him steady, “You had a seizure, love. I need you to take it easy for me.”    


Harry furrows his eyebrows, “I- sei-“ he mutters-

“Yeah, you had a seizure,” Louis hushes, pushing his hair off his forehead, “It’s not a big deal, sweets. I’ve gotta get you cleaned up though. Do you think you can sit up?”

Harry stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. 

“Okay, that’s okay,” Louis says, softly, “How’s your stomach? Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?” 

Again, Harry shakes his head. 

Louis tries to meet his eyes, “That’s good,” he says, “Do you know who I am?” 

“L- “ he chokes on a whimper, then attempts to say it again- “Lou.” 

“The one and only,” he jokes, half-heartedly. He decides to find Harry some more suitable clothing to wear - a four thousand dollar custom Gucci suit won’t do - and digs through several bags until finding Harry’s carry on. He pulls out a pair of black sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt, slinging them over his shoulder, and approaches Harry, again. “Is it okay if I help you change your trousers or would you rather wait and do it yourself?” 

Harry swallows, resting his head against a throw pillow, and doesn’t speak. He hardly acknowledges Louis, blinking lethargically at him. 

“Alright,” Louis whispers, setting the clothing down on the side of the couch. He reaches for the band of Harry’s trousers and slowly slides them down his hips, all the way off his legs, pant leg by pant leg, then does the same with his underwear. “You’ve gotta work with me a little bit here,” he reminds as he reaches for the sweatpants. Despite reminding him of this, Harry doesn’t oblige, observing Louis in utter bewilderment as he guides the sweatpants onto his legs and slowly pulls them up, “Here, can you lift your bum for me?” he asks. 

Harry tries. Louis can feel the muscles in his back straining, exerting himself in order to do so, but his body gives in, too weak to hold himself up, and Louis has to slide his hand under Harry’s lower back and maneuver him in order to pull his sweats on. “I’m gonna unbutton your shirt now, okay?” he asks, rhetorically, hands already moving to undo the first few buttons on his blouse. 

“L-“ Harry cries, coercing Louis to stop, hands freezing on his shirt.

“Hey, shh,” Louis asks, furrowing his eyebrows, “What’s the matter, love?” 

Harry shakes his head, raising his uninjured hand to his face, and whimpers into his palm. 

“No, it’s okay, don’t cry,” Louis whispers, taking Harry’s hands in his. He squeezes them, “Why are you crying?”

“Can’t-“ Harry whimpers in frustration, “I-“

“You don’t have to talk, it’s alright,” Louis sighs, “It’s okay, shh, you’re okay.” 

It’s not uncommon for Harry to cry after seizures, considering the massive possibility of postictal symptoms. Most of the time Harry doesn’t even have a reason for crying, usually the stress of the predicament is enough to turn him into a withering mess. 

“I’m gonna finish changing your shirt, then I’m gonna try my best to get you back to the hotel. We’ll call the doctor and have him look at your wrist,” Louis says, “Do you think you’ll be able to stand? If not, it’s okay.” 

Harry shakes his head. 

“That’s okay,” Louis says and finishes undoing the buttons on Harry’s blouse. Then he helps Harry pull the new t-shirt over his head, cautious of his wrist. “Alright, I think I’ll be able to carry you, you’ve just gotta work with me a little bit,” He hooks his arms underneath Harry, one arm slung underneath his legs and the other around his backside, and carefully tugs him into his grip. “Good?” 

Harry mumbles, tucking his face against Louis’ neck, breathing heavily. Louis grips the fabric of his sweatpants, bundling it in his fist to ensure he has a secure grip on Harry. He carefully leads them out of the dressing room, out into the hallway, where several team members are waiting. 

“And just where are you taking him?” the same rude representative from before asks. 

“My hotel room,” Louis quips, “Why? Is there a problem with that?” 

She rolls her eyes, “I told you before. He needs to be on the plane to Nashville in two hours.” 

“And I fucking told you no,” Louis argues, “He can’t walk. What makes you think he’s stable enough to get on a plane?” 

“Well I- can’t he- “ she huffs- “He’s going to put us behind schedule.” 

Louis glances down at Harry, who attempts to burrow himself further into Louis for protection. “Let me get this straight. He’s gonna put everyone behind for his own bloody tour?” he asks, dryly, “I don’t think so. He’s coming back to my hotel room and he’s gonna get some rest. We’ll see how he is in the morning.” 

“I-”

“And we’re done arguing about it,” Louis adds, beginning to carry Harry down the corridor, “If you have to postpone your show, then so be it. No one will be upset with you.”

Harry doesn’t answer him, breathing loudly against Louis’ neck as he carries them outside to his car. He unlatches the door and carefully sets Harry in the passenger seat, adjusting him so he’s comfortable - as comfortable as he can be after a seizure - and pulls the seat belt snug across his body. “You’ll feel better once you lay down and rest,” Louis promises, kissing his forehead, then pulls away, shutting the door behind him.

He slides into the driver’s side and begins to drive them back to the hotel. He rests one hand on Harry’s thigh, squeezing every once and awhile to offer reassurance. The concept of Harry being on stage, performing, entertaining, loving every minute of it, then falling into a seizure so quickly is still an absurd idea to him, even after all these years. 

The hotel is about twenty minutes away from the arena, but with backed up traffic from Harry’s concert, it takes them about fifty. When they’re parked, Louis steps out of the car and rounds the back of it to get to Harry’s side. He props open the door and bends down slightly. “Are you feeling any better?” he asks, brushing his hair off his forehead, “Do you think you can walk?”

Harry blinks at him, “I think- uh, yeah,” he mutters. 

“Okay,” Louis undoes his seat belt and moves aside, still standing in close enough proximity in case Harry’s weaker than he assumed. “Just take your time. There’s no rush,” he glances at Harry’s right wrist, which is beginning to swell, and looks rather uncomfortable, “Be mindful of your wrist.” 

Harry reaches for the side of the car with his left hand, slowly pivoting his body so he can get out of the car. He’s very lethargic, but Louis doesn’t rush him, prepared to accommodate him if needed. Harry plants his feet into the pavement and starts to pull himself up, but struggles. 

“Here,” Louis says, sliding his arm around Harry’s waist, “I can help you walk, just don’t think I’ll be able to carry you,” he forces Harry onto his feet and the younger boy stumbles, legs turning inward, but Louis manages to help him straighten out before he collapses. 

The two of them stagger into the hotel room. Louis guides Harry to the bed and has him lay down. “I’m gonna ring your tour doctor and see if he can have a look at your wrist,” he meets Harry’s eyes, “Is there anything you need? Some water? Another blanket?” 

Harry shakes his head, burrowing his face into the pillow on the bed. 

“Okay,” Louis sighs, then walks into the bathroom to ring the tour doctor. There’s no hesitation on the doctor’s part, rather he shows up at their tour half an hour after Louis initially speaks to him. 

“Hey Harry,” the doctor, Dr. McCoughlin, greets, “How are you feeling?” 

Harry doesn’t acknowledge him, face still buried deep in the pillow. 

Louis sighs, knowing Harry doesn’t mean to behave rudely, instead he doesn’t know any better, “I don’t know if his wrist is broken or if it’s just a bad sprain.” 

Dr. McCoughlin nods, approaching Harry, and takes his arm into his hand. Harry furrows his eyebrows, studying the doctor's actions as he does so. He’s evidently confused. “Can you move your wrist?” 

Harry heavily sighs, almost sounding exasperated by this request, and rolls his wrist, wincing slightly.

“Well, it’s definitely not broken,” Dr. McCoughlin says, feeling Harry’s wrist, then places his attention on Louis, “It’s a sprain. I can wrap it up for him. Do you have any pain killers?”

“I’m sure I have some aspirin free Tylenol in my luggage,” Louis says. 

“As long as he takes those and keeps pressure off his wrist, it should heal on its own in a couple weeks,” Dr. McCoughlin informs, “but if it doesn’t start to feel better in two weeks time, he’ll have to have it looked at again.”

Louis nods, studying Harry as he lays defenselessly against the mattress. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he says, “I’ll keep an eye on him.” 

The doctor leaves. Louis sits down on the edge of the bed, brushing Harry’s hair off his forehead, “Is there anything you want me to grab for you?” he asks. 

Harry swallows, “I- um,” he rubs his hand over his mouth in frustration, “I- I ruined it.”

“Ruined what?” Louis asks, furrowing his eyebrows. He leaves his hand on Harry’s forehead, feeling for a fever, though he doesn’t seem to have one. “What did you ruin, love?” 

Harry turns his face away, staring at the vacant, beige colored wall. The lurch of his body is followed by a loud sob. “Oh Harry,” Louis coos, laying down on the bed. He positions himself beside Harry and gently takes his chin in his hand, “Look at me, Harry, look at me,” he whispers, “Baby, you didn’t ruin anything. You didn’t ruin a damn thing.” 

“Then why-” he sighs, unable to finish his thought-

Louis feels terrible for him. “Then why what?” he encourages, stroking the pad of his thumb along Harry’s cheek, “You know you can take your time with me. Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

Harry shakes his head. 

Louis doesn’t push him. He burrows himself into Harry’s side, curling to fit under his arm, and rests his chin on his husband’s chest. “I adored your show,” he admits, “Like genuinely, it was- God, Harry, it was something else. You looked so good up there.” 

Harry furrows his eyebrows, staring down at Louis, “I don’t- why-” he sighs in frustration, “I had a seizure.” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, unsure of where Harry will potentially carry the conversation, “It’s not a big deal, though. It didn’t happen until after the show.” 

Harry swallows, “Still- I still had one.”

“And?” 

“I hate it,” Those three words leave Harry’s mouth without issue. “I fucking- I hate it,” he whispers, shutting his eyes as more tears surface. “I hate it.” 

“I know you do,” Louis hushes, kissing Harry’s jaw, “but it wasn’t even bad, Harry. Honestly, hardly anyone even saw. I was coming to congratulate you on the show and you happened to be having the seizure when I got there.” He’s lying, but Harry doesn’t have to know. He’s only trying to put his mind at ease. 

“Really?” Harry asks.

Louis nods, “Really,” he promises, “It wasn’t even that bad. Your wrist is fucked up from the way you fell.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything else about the subject, leaning further into Louis’ touch, and eventually drifts off to sleep. 

Louis brushes loose strands off his forehead, studying the softness of his expression as he rests. 

He genuinely loves Harry, even despite the grief he feels in regard to the predicaments they’re thrown into. 


End file.
